


Fictober 2018: 31 days, 31 short stories for the Sherlock fandom

by shiplocks_of_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Banter, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Garridebs, Gen, Happy Ending, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, John is a Saint, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, Mary Morstan is Not Nice, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Past Viclock, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 04, Prompt Fic, Texting, The Hiatus, The Pool Scene (Sherlock), crimes against cuisine, fictober18, gratuitous abuse of card game metaphors, gratuitous abuse of clichés, gratuitous abuse of implied crassness, gratuitous abuse of present continuous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 06:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 19,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16511006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: A collection of ficlets originally posted on Tumblr for theFictober18 challenge. Each chapter follows a different prompt, used here as the chapter's title.I know the tags are a big mix; fear not, each ficlet will have relevant tags in the initial notes.Most chapters are rated Gen; the rating Teen and Up is for a few chapters that are also tagged Implied Sexual Content, and it's really just to be on the safe side.





	1. “Can you feel this?”

**Author's Note:**

> Relevant tags: Sarah Sawyer & John Watson; Angst; Post-Reichenbach  
> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/post/178643166602/fictober-2018-day-1).

“Can you feel this?”

Sarah whispers the question, a warm, gentle voice in the cool air of the consulting room. She prods John’s left hand with careful fingers, systematic movements searching for broken bones.

If he can feel this. What is _this_ , exactly? Her pressing down on his bruised knuckles? The pain that shoots up his arm? The cold examination table, a flimsy cover rasping against his blood-splattered jeans?

The relentless passing of time, each day ticking farther away from the day Sherlock threw himself from the top of Barts?

The slow drainage of colour from his life, pavement chalk drawings washed away by the rain?

Does he feel the seasons chasing each other? The taste of food instead of decay, the smell of flowers instead of spilled blood? The bitter alcohol in his veins? The acid in the back of his throat?

John had punched an innocent wall ( _Oh the wall, the wall had it coming—_ but this time it was a tiled wall in a dingy ally, not the wallpapered one of Baker Street, it was a cold wall covered in slime and October rain, no smileys or bullet holes, there could not be bullet holes because his gun had disappeared, probably Greg or bloody Mycroft being his usual nosey self, thinking he’d be safer, the bastard, _safer_ , what a joke, nothing was less numbing than safe—)

“John? John?”

Sarah’s alarmed voice cuts through his train of disconnected thoughts. What was that she had asked him? If he could feel this?

“Yes.”


	2. “People like you have no imagination.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Mrs Hudson & Greg Lestrade; Implied Sexual Content; Humor  
> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/post/178670531807/fictober-2018-day-2).

“Good evening, Mrs Hudson. Sorry to disturb you; is Sherlock in?”

“Oh, hello, detective inspector, do come in. Dreadful weather tonight, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson steps aside to let an apologetic (and drenched to the bone) Greg Lestrade come in the hallway. She closes the door on the downpour outside, and the loud splashing of fat droplets on the pavement muffles quickly down to white noise.

Greg shrugs off his sodden coat and hangs it on a wall hook. He takes a deep breath, as if finally able to breathe after navigating the storm. “Thank you. I tried texting him, but the git isn’t answering.”

Mrs Hudson glances at him, trying to decide how much to say. Not that she is coy about these things, but at her age, there’s things she prefers not to discuss with a gentleman. Also, it’s not really her story to tell, is it?

“Sherlock isn’t, um, _available_ right now. I was just about to put the kettle on, would you fancy a cuppa?”

Greg frowns lightly but accepts the offer and follows her into her flat’s tiny kitchen. Mrs Hudson takes her time putting the kettle on, making Greg stretch to a top shelf and reach her fine porcelain cups (‘only the best for special guests’, she quips), fiddling with the biscuit tin, searching for a particular blend of tea, preparing a pot that finds its way to the table. Greg makes himself comfortable at her small table, talking about this and that, stirring milk and sugar into his steaming hot cup of tea, grabbing a custard cream.

She finally sits across him, pours herself a cup, and takes an apologetic tone, “If I knew we’d have visitors, I would have baked something—”

“Gosh, no, Mrs Hudson, please, no need to apologise. I’m the one with the surprise visits anyway.”

_Surprise visit. You have no idea_ , Mrs Hudson cheekily thinks. “Well, it’s very nice to have you for tea, inspector.”

Greg seems to sense she is fibbing and goes straight for the kill. “You said he isn’t _available_ ; does it mean he is in? Is he doing some obnoxious experiment in the flat again?”

As if on cue, a well-timed _thud_ sounds from the flat above. Mrs Hudson flinches but recovers quickly. “I suppose you could call it that, an experiment of sorts.” She smiles unconvincingly and sips her tea.

“Swear to god, I have no idea how John puts up with all his shenanigans.” Greg shakes his head and takes another biscuit. Some more dull banging echoes through the house. “Is he hammering the walls or something?”

Mrs Hudson almost spits her tea but she composes herself quickly. “That would be John. Probably.” She feels herself blush — but the fact is that she has picked up a skill or two in making her own deductions from living in close quarters with the world’s only consulting detective.

Greg frowns puzzled at her. “You okay, Mrs Hudson? You seem a bit, I don’t know. Flustered?”

“Yes, just fine, must be this weather, it does things to my hip, you know. More tea?” Greg’s cup is half-full still, but she’ll do anything to change subject.

“Why would John be hammering on the walls? And also ignoring my texts? He usually makes Sherlock reply to me or replies himself, but—”

“Maybe he didn’t hear your texts, with the hammering and all that,” Mrs Hudson interrupts hurriedly.

“Heh, maybe I can just try to guess what they are hanging on the walls, make my own deductions.” Greg seems to find this immensely amusing, crinkling his eyes with a wide grin and taking another gulp of tea. “I deduce it’s another skull painting. Or more of those drawings of bees.”

As the banging upstairs gets louder and more… _rhythmic_ , Mrs Hudson gives up. “Oh come on, detective inspector. Can’t you do better than that?”

Greg looks half bewildered, half shocked at her. “Whatever else could they be doing?”

Mrs Hudson stares pointedly at him. “The problem with people like you is that you have no imagination. _Whatever_ could they be _otherwise_ doing?”

Greg stares back at her, and… ah, there it is. Confusion giving way to surprise, then to a wicked smile. “Well, in that case, may I have another cup of tea?”


	3. “How can I trust you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sally Donovan & Sherlock Holmes; Angst; Post-Reichenbach  
> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/post/178732470982/fictober-2018-day-3).

As Sherlock shoots the train of deductions that led to the detention of yet another murderer, swirling around the room gesticulating wildly, Sally Donovan seethes. Quietly, arms crossed in a tense posture, back arched so only her shoulders touch the wall, Sally sniffs contemptuously from across the room and rolls her eyes at every dramatic pause Sherlock produces in his lecture.

She looks around and sees the usual scene: Greg Lestrade listening intently, a mix of awe and incredulity on his face while Sherlock rattles on, machine gun-like; constables and SOCOs doing their work, following _procedure_ unlike the absolute berk spouting nonsense in the middle of the room; and John Watson, interrupting occasionally to ask for a clarification or just beaming like an absolute idiot at Sherlock and murmuring his usual ‘fantastic’ or ‘that’s amazing’ endearments.

In short, everything as usual, which means nothing as Sally wants it to be.

Ever since Sherlock returned from the dead, everybody seems to be even more acquiescent of his madness. It did not take long for Lestrade to invite him to crime scenes, as the one they are standing around now, or even to abandon an operation because His Royal Freakiness texted him about some crap, as when they were about to arrest the Waters family. Like a _puppy_. And John? He’s worse than _ever_.

Although…

Something has changed, hasn’t it? She can’t quite bring herself to hate Sherlock as she did before he disappeared. Since the moment they collected Moriarty’s body from the rooftop of Barts, a small nugget of something suspiciously feeling like guilt had planted itself inside her. At that point, she was still convinced Sherlock had been a fraud, and his suicide had simply confirmed it — she had supposed he wasn’t quite totally immune to emotions, not having been able to cope with his own guilt.

Except all that had been a lie. He had faked his death, left his friends to grieve him, buried careers at the Met. Ever the sociopath, after all. It was only the fact that she had been wrong about his being a fraud that forces her now to accept his intrusion in her work.

As she broods on these thoughts, Sally notices that the room is now emptier and quieter, only Lestrade, John, Sherlock and herself left; Lestrade is exchanging some joke with John while they both walk towards the door, and Sherlock is inspecting some stain on the carpet with more attention that it probably deserves. She straightens her back, squares her shoulders and is about to follow Lestrade out of the house when she hears Sherlock rumble quietly, but definitely at her:

“You still don’t trust me.”

Sally halts, clenches her jaw and turns decisively to face him. “How can I trust you? You are a master liar, an emotionless sociopath and a manipulator.” She doesn’t miss how he narrows her eyes at her, a flash of… _hurt_?, on his face, there and gone in a second.

He stands up and faces Sally. The moment stretches in silence as they glare at each other. “And you, Detective Sergeant, are a hypocrite.”

Of all the barbs he has thrown her over the years, this one confuses her the most. “What?!”

“I do hate to repeat myself but in deference to your sleep-deprived lower intellect, I restate: you are a hypocrite.” As she stares in shock at him, Sherlock continues. “After all, you manipulated your colleagues, in particular DI Lestrade, into thinking I was a fake, just because you despise me. And after being so thoroughly debunked, you begrudge me.” He takes a step closer to Sally, eyes never leaving her face. “I would rather be a sociopath than a well of resentment.”

“Do you have any idea of the consequences of your actions?” She is not going to get talked at like that by this insolent berk, that’s for sure!

“Is this still about my forged suicide? How positively pedestrian.” He rolls his eyes and flashes her an insincere smirk. “But I am elated that you care.”

“You hurt John.”

_Damn it_. She had no intention to go there, but the words simply left her mouth. She knows it’s a low blow, unsure as she is about how the two men have worked through the turmoil that Sherlock’s return must have caused in their relationship. Sally braces herself for a scathing reply. To her surprise, Sherlock lowers his eyes to the carpet, visibly taken, and whispers, “I am aware of that, Sergeant.”

Sally shifts from foot to foot, a sense of discomfort filling her slowly. “Look, it’s none of my business but. He was in a bad shape after you left. And you let him think you were dead for over two years.”

“I had perfectly good reasons to—”

“I don’t give a toss about your reasons.” Sally has found momentum in her favour as anger propels her to make her point. “You don’t do that to your best friend.”

Sherlock, who had lifted his eyes briefly to hers, lowers again his gaze and doesn’t reply. _Well, that’s a first_ , thinks Sally. But as Sherlock stuffs his hands in his coat’s pockets, slumps his shoulders as if the weight of a thousand years rests on them and continues to be silent at the floor, Sally feels her anger dissipating and turning into the only thing she never wants to feel for this man:

Pity.

Sally knows anything she says right now will only be a feeble attempt to fill the void of silence between them. She starts retreating slowly to the exit, trying to find some anger again in her to justify her leaving Sherlock to wallow in his misery. Instead, that small nugget makes itself noticed again, regret gnawing at her. Oscillating between giving in to her pride or her empathy, she takes a moment too long, long enough to witness something she never thought she would witness:

Sherlock Holmes is _weeping_. It’s not obvious to the casual viewer — one has to stand as close as Sally is to notice eyes filling and spilling, the slight shaking on his frame, the ragged breaths.

Her empathy wins.

“Holmes… Sherlock.”

“You are right. One does not do this to their best friend,” his voice is almost steady, but a slight tremor betrays his true state of mind, “yet I would do it all over again to save his life.” He lifts his head fully to look at her. “I would commit suicide for real if that meant he would live. If that makes me a sociopath — so be it.”

The resolution he injects in this confession — and _Christ_ , the tears that track down his face — shatters something inside Sally. “That would not make you a sociopath. Quite the contrary, I think.” She softens her voice now, afraid that Sherlock will break apart in this foreign room, surrounded by police tape and ghosts.

He wipes his face quickly, embarrassed at his momentary lapse of posture, and looks awkwardly at everything and anything around them except Sally. She continues, “Maybe try to keep alive for him instead, heh?”

Sherlock pauses and looks at her, _really_ looks, one of those long, analytical gazes that usually mean he is processing new information. “I will certainly endeavour to do so, Sally.”


	4. “Will that be all?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Fluff; Domestic Fluff; Johnlock; Friends To Lovers  
> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/post/178738384777/fictober-2018-day-4).

“John. John. John!”

John sighs and thwacks down the newspaper he was trying to read on his side table. Sherlock had been sitting in his armchair for hours now in complete silence, hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed. John assumed he had retreated into his Mind Palace, as he usually does after a case, filing away little bits and bobs that may prove useful in the future.

Now, task probably completed, Sherlock seems to be back to his usual manic self.

Which means there is no way John will finish reading the sports section tonight.

“John!”

“I’m right here in front of you, Sherlock!” John tries to sound exasperated, but the fact is he is pleased Sherlock is out of his reverie. He loves evenings like these, where they can both get down from the high of solving a tough case with quiet moments and small talk. And so, John’s exasperation ends up sounding much like fondness.

To his surprise, Sherlock does not continue on one of his tirades. Instead, he stares at John, mouth agape, with a look of bewildered surprise on his face. As if John had suddenly materialised in front of him, as if Sherlock wasn’t expecting to see him there at all. Before John can say or do anything else, Sherlock gets up from his armchair and swiftly climbs on his lap, straddling his thighs.

To say John is surprised might be a rather large understatement. He finds himself with a lapful of Sherlock Holmes, clear eyes gazing thoughtfully at him.

“Ummmm, Sherlock, what are you—?”

“I wish to initiate an intimate romantic relationship with you.”

Oookay, not what John was expecting. He tries to form some sort of sensical answer to this, but all that leaves his mouth is “Euurgh…?” John doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but Sherlock solves his conundrum by burying his head in the crook of John’s neck and sliding his arms behind John’s shoulders in a clumsy hug. John feels there is nothing more natural than to encircle Sherlock’s waist.

“I have calculated with a 99% confidence interval that I am in love with you,” Sherlock’s voice is muffled against John’s neck, “and with 96% that you are in love with me.”

John is baffled. Here he is, his biggest dream literally falling on his lap, and he has no idea what to do with it. “Wh-what do you want to do about it?”

“I want to giggle with you at crime scenes. I want to refuse to eat but steal food from your plate. I want to serenade you with my violin. I want _cozy_ nights in. I want _kisses_ and _cuddles_ and other _hateful_ demonstrations of open _affection_ , John.”

John can’t help but to chuckle at this. “Will that be all?”, he asks, amused.

Sherlock lifts his head to look again at John and smirks a mischievous smile. “A cup of tea would also be nice.”


	5. “Take what you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan; Mary Is Not Nice; Angst; Missing Scene; Post Episode: The Abominable Bride  
> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/post/178769214282/fictober-2018-day-5).

As the last dregs of my morning tea grit on my tongue, the doorbell sounds. I, of course, ignore it in favour of turning the latest puzzle over in my head — namely, how pollination patterns in the greater London area affect the composition of mud throughout seasonal changes. The hypothesis I have formed is that this pattern is intrinsically connected to the predominant species of honeybee—

Well. Never mind that now. Apparently, Mrs Hudson is at home and has, as she is prone to, opened the door to this stranger.

Ah. Light tread on the stairs, a gait I easily recognise. And an appalling shade of red on her coat as she shadows my doorstep. Mary Watson. But no John on her tail.

I put on my most genuine smile. It still manages to fool her even after we all let our façades fall.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“Good morning, Mary.” I rise myself from my trusty armchair. Fortunate that I had already changed into my day clothes, although my second favourite dressing gown still wraps me as an armour. “What do I owe the pleasure?” I step towards her and place a light kiss on her proffered cheek. She smiles back with the same empty intentions.

It’s a dance we both know well. There is an understanding, an unspoken agreement, born out of the ashes of the messy clean-up after Magnussen’s death. What she does not know is that the terms differ: she thinks her previous life is finally tucked away in the past, and that she is forgiven for shooting me. That I am friendly, although cold and aloof due to our past. That John has forgiven her with carefully chosen words.

A script I wrote. A theatre I command.

And this is why her colder than usual demeanour and her presence in my flat without John raise my hackles.

“I wanted to have a word with you. Won’t take long.” She does not shed her coat but invites herself to John’s armchair. I hate it when she sits on it, as if her claim on his life was not large enough already. But there is a game to play. I sit across from her.

“You have an issue that involves John, else he would also be here.”

“That wasn’t a very impressive deduction, Sherlock.” Her chuckle could have been teasing, but there is a definite steel to it underneath it all. “Anyway, yes, you are correct.” She leans forward conspiratorially and announces barely above a whisper: “We have three people in our marriage, and it’s taking its toll. John is in love with someone else.”

She drops this bomb in such a nonchalant fashion I briefly think I misheard her. John, in love with someone else? It is true that he is trudging along in a loveless marriage for the sake of ensnaring Mary in a tight trap, one she can finally not escape from — ah. John is unable to carry on the deception, to a level Mary suspects he is having an affair.

“Mary, I assure you I do not know which this third person may be, but John has strong moral principles and is not the kind of man to—”

“You,” she interrupts me, and it’s like a bullet has found its way to my chest all over again, “it’s you. He’s in love with you.”

I gape at her. John is my best friend. And yes, I admit (only to myself) that I do have romantic feelings for him — but he is not able to love me in that way. I have deduced, however, that he does experience attraction to me. But that it would be wedging itself into their common life together…

I am trying to formulate an appropriate rebuttal when Mary continues: “I am ready to make an agreement.”

My breathing has become so shallow it’s almost not detectable, my chest turned into stone. I am out of my depth, and she knows it. “I do not follow.”

“Then, let me make this short and clear.” She leans back, assumes a position of power. The chair should swallow her small frame, but she sits now larger than life, a glimmer of triumph on her gaze. “You can’t have him all for yourself. I love him, and I will not give him up. One can’t always take what they want.

“But there is a minimum I am able to accept. He’ll have to come to terms with these conditions too, once I force him to admit he’s in love with you. But you? Take what you need — but no more than that. Shag him, take him on cases, I don’t care. I know you want him. But at the end of the day, he returns to me.”

I swallow sharp shards. Ice fills my stomach, my morning tea threatening to make its way up. “Hypothetically speaking, if I were to accept these conditions, what would you want in return?”

She barks a dark chuckle, her pretty teeth flashing white at me. “That you two break whatever little conspiracy you are weaving against me. Oh, don’t look at me like that — you are good, but John is transparent. True, it took me some time to figure it out, but…” She stands suddenly; I am pinned to my armchair. Her eyes don’t leave mine. My head spins, thoughts in a whirlwind. John, in love with me? It might be true. This I cannot deduce — but Mary, who is excellent at reading people as I am reading a crime scene, has picked up something between us, something unacknowledged yet very present.

Is it love? Passion? Romantic intent? Friendship? Comradery?

“I am glad we had this little chat.” She smiles falsely, not even trying to look sincere. “Just get it out of your systems and let me have my married life in peace and quiet.” She strides to the door but halts at the threshold and turns back to face me. “And, Sherlock?”

I look at her, unguarded, soul stripped naked.

“I still have the gun I shot you with.” She disappears onto the landing and down the stairs. I hear the thud of the door closing.

Our theatre is up. She knows about our plans to destroy her, send her to prison or worse. And I cannot blame John. I am sure the same unguarded affection shows on my features whenever we meet. And Mary, clever Mary, she picked up on it.

 _Take what you need_. Like John is a fountain from which I must now drink only the essential to survive.

Unacceptable. But there’s nothing for it: we will have to keep her happy. For now.

I pick up my phone and press a familiar number.

“Mycroft. We need to adjust the plan.”


	6. “I heard enough, this ends now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Mild Hurt/Comfort; Angst; Happy Ending; Friends To Lovers; Johnlock; Missing Scene  
> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/post/178791596479/fictober-2018-day-6).

Sherlock winces in pain as he rises from his nap on the sofa. His days are pathetically reduced to trips between his bedroom, the sofa (sometimes the armchair, when armed with enough pillows to support his back) and the loo. Right now, he doesn’t know exactly where he wants to go next: he woke up hungry, but the nausea quenches his appetite.

He hears John’s soft voice from across the room. “Alright, Sherlock? Need anything?”

John’s careful tone almost hurts more than the bullet wound on Sherlock’s chest. After Mary had shot him, after being bed-ridden for weeks in hospital, John had practically moved back in 221B, assuming the role of caregiver. Sherlock hadn’t asked, and John hadn’t offered; it just had happened. Tentative questions about Mary had been received with dismissive, angry answers or sometimes — and even worse — thick, laden silence. And so, Sherlock had stopped asking, and John had continued to help Sherlock change bandages, eat meals, move around the flat.

Sherlock is not bored. He has a problem to turn in his head, that of what to do about John and Mary and the baby and the threats and Magnussen. His being shot had been shoved aside in his mind as an irrelevant detail by now — let bygones be bygones, and all that. Mary will not try to shoot him again, as it is not in her best interests.

But John. _John_. As much as it pleases Sherlock to have his friend back in Baker Street, he knows this comes at a price. Every day John spends away from Mary is another day dooming their marriage. What happens if their story ends in divorce? Mary disappears again, as she will have no shield against Magnussen; she will take the baby with her, no question about that — she is too possessive to not do so. And in time, John will begrudge Sherlock’s role in all this, their friendship rusting away.

As much as it pains Sherlock, the only possible solution is to convince John to forgive Mary. Give him a chance at being happy with her, have a family, raise their child. Sherlock owes this to him. John deserves to be happy.

He realises he hasn’t answered John. “Hm. Hungry. But no appetite.” He grimaces again, the pain more insistent now. John notices this and strides quickly to his side, slides a gentle arm around his waist, helps him getting up from the sofa.

“Easy, Sherlock, take it easy. I’ll give you some more painkillers, but you should try to eat something first.”

As they haul themselves to the kitchen, Sherlock considers that, while it _is_ irritating to be so dependent on John’s care for now, he wouldn’t exchange these few stolen moments of closeness for anything in the world. He is slightly ashamed of himself for this, as he knows the feeling can never be reciprocated; but he cannot help it.

They share a plate of biscuits and drink tea at their kitchen table a few minutes later. Sherlock feels more like himself now. It is time to start gently easing John into his plan.

“John. I am ever so thankful for your presence here.”

John, who had been staring at his mug for a solid minute as if it contains the answer to life, the universe and everything, lifts his eyes and gazes softly at Sherlock. “Thanks, Sherlock. I am, um. _Glad_ might not be the word, under the circumstances, but relieved to be here with you.”

That is more of an answer than Sherlock is expecting, and damn it if it doesn’t cause another sort of pain on his chest. “You are invaluable to me, John. But,” he continues carefully, “aren’t you worried about your child? And Mary?”

“Oh, I’m worried about her, alright, worried that she will come here and try to kill you again.”

“She’s had her chance to do so; she doesn’t want to kill me, not now anyway. I have forgiven her,” he adds quickly, interrupting John’s imminent protest, “and so should you.” _There_. Not the perfect way to start the discussion, but the point has been made.

“No.”

“John—”

“Why!” John’s frustrated cry shakes Sherlock to his core. “Why should I forgive her! She saw me mourning your death, Sherlock! She knew what it would do to me to watch you bleed to death! _Again_!”

Oh, no. This is not at all how Sherlock had envisioned the conversation going. “I am indebted to your friendship, which I treasure above everything else in the world, but she is carrying your child, she is your wife, the woman you chose to spend the rest of your life with…” Sherlock trails off as he watches John’s expression turning anger into incredulity. He decides to shut up.

“I chose her when I had no other choices, Sherlock. I didn’t want to choose her.” He chokes on these words, an unreleased sob trapped in his throat. “It wasn’t her I wanted to choose,” he whispers, defeated.

And all the sudden, Sherlock realises what he has conveniently ignored for a long time. Staring into John’s watery, blue eyes, he allows himself to read what John is saying without words: that Sherlock will always be John’s priority, his first choice, the one person he will sacrifice everything for, including a future with Mary.

Unacceptable.

“John, I. I cannot give you,” a stab of pain, “the same things she can,” the dagger twisting in his chest, “as I am not,” and why is this so difficult, “what you want.” Sherlock instinctively raises a hand to the wound, as it feels it might have burst open and let all his blood drain from his body. He feels cold and starts shivering.

John gets up from his chair to sit next to him. To Sherlock’s surprise, he takes his hand and lifts it to kiss his knuckles.

Sherlock is quite sure he has stopped breathing. The shivering subsides.

“Sherlock,” John cocoons Sherlock’s hand between his two warm ones, “you are not unlovable. You are not unwanted. You have tried to convince me for far too long you are not who I want.” He shifts closer, so close Sherlock feels wafts of tea-scented exhales on his cheek. “I heard enough; this ends now.”

There could have been multiple ways to finish this conversation. Sherlock, however, chooses the one that, for once, he truly wants, by closing the gap and laying a soft kiss on John’s lips. A kiss that is reciprocated, a kiss filled with promises, with _I love you_ , with _I will never leave you_ , with _stay with me_ , with _don’t let me go_.

A kiss to open the future of the two of them against the world.


	7. “No worries, we still have time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Fluff; Domestic Fluff; Johnlock   
> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/post/178827779252/fictober-2018-day-7).

The soft morning light peeked through the intricate patterns of the lace curtains. It was still very early; the bedroom was painted in blues and purples gently easing into white gold, promising a sun-filled day.

This would be perfect for Sherlock’s purposes. He wanted to take the opportunity to show John around the village, introduce him to the (few) local shops, take him for fish and chips in the (only) pub. Maybe a walk later by the cliffs, toes burying in warm sand, the salty-scented sea breeze kissing their skin. A homemade dinner; perhaps he could convince John to do the thing with the peas. He would laugh fondly at Sherlock, and comply, and they would have a glass of crispy white wine with the meal and talk nonsense throughout the evening, watching the sunset—

John’s wriggling shook him out of his reverie.

“Sherlock, that tickles!” John was laughing, voice still rumbling with sleep, and Sherlock understood why: he had been drawing lazy circles on John’s naked back with one hand but got so distracted with daydreaming he had been applying that amount of pressure that is just short of too much and of too little at the same time.

Hence, he had been tickling his partner awake.

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, smoothing over John’s back with a warm hand. “Good morning.”

“Hmm, morning, love,” John replied, turning his head up to face Sherlock and stretching to place a kiss on his lips. “You look like you’re plotting something; isn’t it too early for that?”

And if that wasn’t typical John Watson. The man knew Sherlock inside out, and it took him one sleepy look at Sherlock’s face to know he was, indeed, planning things in his head, early hour be damned. Sherlock gazed at John, unable to avoid a fond grin spreading on his face.

And why would he avoid it? He had everything he ever wanted in that very moment: John in his arms, his warm skin sliding gently on Sherlock’s, his blue eyes so full of affection directed at one Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock’s chest filled with so much love for this man he thought he would simply burst.

“I was considering how to make the most out of our day. We could go to the village, do some shopping for dinner, see some local sights—”

Sherlock was interrupted by a passionate kiss and a hand trailing down his chest, his abdomen. John lowered his voice and rumbled in his ear, “Later, maybe; I see some very nice sights _right here_.”

“John, we should go early if we want to catch the fishmonger— _oh_.” A more playful nip on his earlobe derailed Sherlock’s thoughts.

“Come here, you beautiful man.” John rolled himself over Sherlock, kissing down his neck and up again, along his jaw, stilling while hovering over his lips. He paused a moment longer, gazing into Sherlock’s eyes thoughtfully. “No worries, we still have time.”

Sherlock could only agree. “All the time in the world.”


	8. “I know you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper  
> HPLC stands for High Performance Liquid Chromatography.  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

The HPLC whirrs and hums as it draws and blends solvents, pushes them through a slim chromatography column, sends data to the connected PC.

Said PC is being scowled at by a visibly aggravated Sherlock Holmes, as the screen plots a mess of peaks on a chromatogram.

Damn it all to hell! The samples are definitely contaminated — it will be next to impossible to make any sense out of these results. And the reason? All thanks to the ineptitude of a _certain_ forensics so-called _expert_ —

Molly comes in the lab, carrying two mugs of steaming tea and trots up to Sherlock. “So? What d’you got?”

Her voice is too chirpy for Sherlock’s foul mood. “Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” He snatches an innocent Erlenmeyer flask from the bench and is about to hurl it against the nearest wall when Molly cuts in with a steely tone:

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Sherlock snaps his head around in surprise. Molly is always affable, and even when she is infuriated by Sherlock’s antics she usually damps down her annoyance to a yielding tone.

“I’ve had enough of your destroying my lab equipment because something sent you in a strop. Sit the bloody hell down on that stool and drink the damn tea!” She points to a seat just behind Sherlock with one of the mugs, sloshing a few drops over the rim.

Sherlock is so taken aback by Molly’s attitude he simply gapes at her and falls heavily on the seat. He accepts a mug with a sheepish ‘thank you’ and takes a sip.

Molly leans against the lab bench and drinks her tea. “Now. Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock considers her offer to lend a helping ear. He enjoys talking through his deductions and experimental results with John because it often helps him to see new perspectives, find new angles to the problem at hand. But John is off to some boring medical conference and Sherlock is left to his own devices. Molly, though… Sherlock appreciates Molly’s help and company, despite his typical caustic attitude to her attempts of socialising with him. She is an intelligent, well-educated woman who has put up with his shenanigans for years now.

And she is his friend. She carried for a long time a secret, _the_ secret, the one that broke hearts but saved lives. 

“The peptide profile is too complex to make any sense, which suggests contamination upon sample collection. As usual, the cretins at the Met botched what would otherwise be a perfectly reasonable avenue of investigation.” He rakes a hand through his curls, frustration seeping out from every pore.

“Can you take a new sample yourself?”

“I suppose I could, but…” Sherlock trails off, looking unfocused at a distant point across the room.

“But?”

“But I would have to convince Dimmock to let me have access to the scene before tonight; rain is forecasted, and it will wash away any evidence that could still be collected. And he’s being particularly _insufferable_ lately.” Sherlock huffs into his mug and risks a side glance at Molly. She is nodding in sympathy, her kind eyes sending a silent apology for not being able to do more for him.

“Molly, I am sorry for overreacting.” He can see the surprise on her face at his apology — does he really do this that seldom? “I do appreciate your support and friendship.”

Molly smiles softly. “I know you do. Now,” she sets her mug down and straightens her spine, “I know John is away, which means you are hardly eating; how about we go and get some lunch? My treat.”

Sherlock wants to protest about her nannying, but his heart is not in it. Molly is generous with her time and patience, and Sherlock says the only thing that is appropriate.  “Yes, that would be very nice, Molly. You are too kind to me.”

She smiles a bright smile. “Come on then, before you threaten my beakers or something. And no, I’m not ‘too kind’ — I do enjoy being your friend and lending you a helping hand.”

Sherlock smiles back. “I know you do.”


	9. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Angst (with a hopeful ending)  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

The bleak June day insists on withholding sunshine in favour of an unseasonable chilly drizzle, dulling down the bright colours of Spring.

John walks briskly through the gates, ignores the first few rows of gravestones, takes a path his shoes have probably carved from all the times he has walked it. His loafers are getting muddy, but that is the last thing on his mind.

In his left hand, a single flower. A dark crimson rose.

His feet take him almost unconsciously to the intended destination, and suddenly there it is: still shiny black, fine, polished granite with two engraved words:

‘Sherlock Holmes’.

John leaves the rose on the tombstone and takes two steps back. Stares at the familiar name. Plants himself in front of the grave of his best friend. Inhales deeply, exhales shakily. It’s so very quiet here, just the gentle rustling of leaves and the drizzle infusing the scene with white noise, the earthy petrichor surrounding him.

He knows Sherlock is alive. _Obviously_. He’s known it for years now, ever since he made that ridiculous scene at The Landmark while John was trying to propose to Mary. They’ve been to hell and back since then; they have broken and mended their friendship; they have moved forward.

Yet, a part of John will always be scattered on the pavement off Barts and buried in this empty grave.

Sherlock is a stealthy walker, but John has his military training, and Sherlock’s gait is unmistakeable in the wet grass behind him. He feels Sherlock slow down to a stop. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s shoulders and nuzzles his temple.

John stiffens at first but then relaxes into his embrace. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“John. I am not dead.” Sherlock’s voice is low and soothing, unwilling to break the peace around them.

“I know. It’s just that— sometimes I—” He takes a deep breath and relaxes further into Sherlock’s arms.

“I will never leave you again.” A small kiss behind his ear. “Never,” a kiss on the temple, “ever,” another on the cheek, “ever again,” and another on his jaw. Sherlock hugs John tighter as if to lock his promise in place.

And John believes him.


	10. “You think this troubles me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Fluff  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

“—confirming that the soil in the warehouse is, indeed, a mix of two different types of dirt packed onto each other in different years. Now, the top layer can’t be too thick to allow this extent of mixing, which means that its function was mostly to even out the worn-out ground. Had the owner or owners of the place been less cheap, they could have just cemented the whole floor, but that would take extra in maintenance costs as some sort of heating would have to be in place, so the ground would not crack on colder winters. This is probably not happening often in our climate, but still, it could cost more in the long run. But this is unimportant, as the real question is, where did the second layer of dirt come from? The answer to this question can be gleaned from a careful analysis of the pollen contents, the ratio of different mineral components and the percentage of organic matter in said dirt. Mind you, all three factors have to be taken into account, as pollen profiles do not vary significantly throughout the Greater London area, the mineral components might differ, yes, but they can be the same in different parts of London, and the organic matter, while being the most accurate parameter to identify a unique place, is difficult to separate into all of its components, which can be up to several hundreds depending on the—”

“Sherlock, for the love of god, _stop_.” John shook his head in exasperation at Sherlock’s answer to his simple question of ‘What are you doing on the microscope? Case?’ The avalanche of information (of which John caught little of) was nothing he was not used to, but John’s patience today was short. He had been vomited on two times, three of his most hypochondriac patients had made an appearance, and two other GPs had called in sick, which meant extra crappy work for John — and wasn’t ‘crappy’ just the word, as he remembered with a shiver the graphic description of one of his patient’s diarrhoea.

So, John was a bit testy, and his interruption might have sounded snappier than intended. He knew that because Sherlock stopped abruptly, and after a moment’s hesitation started to tidy up the mess of microscope slides and notes and soil samples scattered on the table. “I’m… sorry, John, I’ll just—”

“God, Sherlock, no, wait.” John softened his voice, regretting his cursed, tetchy mood. He gently held Sherlock’s arm. “I’m the one who should be apologising. Tough day at work, shouldn’t dump my frustrations on you.”

“I upset you with my…” Sherlock just does a wide movement, encompassing loosely everything on the table and around them.

John reached out for Sherlock’s cheek (and oh, that he was allowed to do so nowadays still filled him with wonder), forcing him gently to turn to face John. “I’ve seen bags of thumbs, eyes in tea mugs and a severed head in the fridge. You being brilliant? You think this troubles me?”

Sherlock looked so uncertain, so unguarded, wide-eyed and deflated. “I am not an easy man to live with, John. Why you endure my idiosyncrasies is still a complete mystery to me.”

John slid his hands around Sherlock’s waist, and explained, never losing eye contact, “Because I love you and your idiosyncrasies, you absolutely fascinating madman.”

As John was rewarded with a smile, he leaned in for a kiss. And Sherlock reciprocated and kissed his troubles away, the day’s events dissolving into unimportant past.


	11. “But I will never forget!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sally Donovan & Greg Lestrade; Post-Reichenbach  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan have been a team for so many years, Greg is almost unsure whether there was a time they _weren’t_ a team. They have been through a lot together; and, despite the difference in their temperaments, they do work as a well-oiled machine.

Which is why Greg is so very attuned to any changes in Sally’s mood. What he senses today, though, has him worried. Sally is _weary_. Not the sort of weariness that comes with witnessing one too many gory crime scenes — and by golly, there’s no shortage of that in this bloody city — but the sort that comes with carrying a weight inside for a long time.

If he is honest with himself, this change did not arrive suddenly. It had arrived with Sherlock’s return from the dead — after the shock had given way to incredulity, then to resignation (or acceptance that stuff like this only happens when Sherlock Holmes in involved in the story). Sherlock is now invited back to crime scenes, and is back to his former self: acerbic, incisive, brilliant. Maybe a bit softer around the edges, but essentially still very much Sherlock.

And Sally? She doesn’t call Sherlock ‘freak’ or ‘psychopath’ any longer. She hardly even interacts with him. And while this shouldn’t surprise Greg, the fact is this avoidance seems to have more something to do with whatever is gnawing at her and less with her not wanting to have anything to do with Sherlock in the first place.

Greg’s thoughts whirl around in his head as he takes one last look at the present crime scene: his team is wrapping things up, Sally structuring work with her usual efficiency, and Sherlock is long gone, having abandoned the place after spouting a stream of deductions and declaring any other sort of follow-up work as ‘insufferably boring’. Perhaps this is why Sally, who had been evidently subdued while Sherlock is there, seems to be a bit lighter, as if that invisible weight had lifted somewhat.

But just somewhat.

“Donovan?” Greg catches her eye and nods towards the exit. She gives a few final instructions to a constable and follows Greg out of the posh Fitzrovia house and into the cold night, a question mark on her face.

Greg pulls her gently by her arm until they are out of hearing range. “Everything alright with you?”

Sally raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Uh, yes sir, I do think so. We’ll be wrapping things soon enough—”

“No, Sally, I mean with _you_.” Greg calls her so seldom ‘Sally’, so this startles her. Greg takes a deep breath and decides to tackle the subject head on. “I’ve noticed you act different when Sherlock is around.” She huffs and rolls her eyes, but Greg sees this for what it is: avoidance. “No, listen: you used to be as acidic to him as he was with you, but since his return it’s been different.”

“Yeah, well,” Sally composes herself, lifts her chin, “of course it’s different, it’s… not the same,” she concludes lamely.

Greg smiles at her sheepish look. “Care to elaborate?”

She shrugs. “I suppose it just doesn’t really tickle me any longer to exchange barbs with him. He doesn’t really acknowledge my presence anyway.”

“He doesn’t acknowledge _anyone’s_ presence,” Greg points out, “he ignores _me_ most of the time.”

“Ha, true, but…”

Greg allows Sally a moment to gather her thoughts. She is chewing her lower lip in thought. “But…”

“There’s a lot of history between us. With the whole thinking he was a fraud and whatnot.”

_Ah_. So _that’s_ what’s been troubling her. “Sally, he doesn’t hold any resentment against us. If he did, he wouldn’t have come here today when I asked him to. He has received a proper official apology, we have talked about this… we were all fooled. It’s water under the bridge. He’s probably forgotten all about it, the way he ‘deletes’ things in his head.” Greg is trying to not be dismissive, but he’s saying nothing but what he believes is the truth. Sherlock, ever the pragmatic detective, had made it clear he did not hold any grudges, as the web Moriarty had spun around them had been clever and tight. Of course, Greg also had lingering thoughts of guilt in his role in all that mess, but it all had sort of been cancelled out by Sherlock’s return from the dead, had it not?

As Greg is hoping Sally sees his point, he watches her instead transform: she lifts fiery eyes at him, clenches her fists, hardens her jaw, her whole stance tensing.

“But _I_ will never forget! I was _wrong_ , and I was _foolish_ , and I am _sorry_ , and I don’t know how to tell him how sorry I am because. Because. I don’t know!” Sally explodes, her anger no longer contained, raised voice turning some heads in their direction.

Greg takes another deep breath, bewildered by her violent reaction. To defuse an angry Sally Donovan is a fine art, but one he has learned throughout the years. “Have you tried to simply talk to him? Come on, Donovan; you are a brave woman. I am sure he will not refuse a word with you.” At her sceptical look, he continues, “I am one-hundred percent sure he has forgiven you, as he has forgiven me. Just give it a go. He respects you a lot more than what you think.”

Sally seems surprised to hear this, but doesn’t answer, which Greg takes as a good signal: she is thinking about it, turning the suggestion in her head, looking at it from different angles. She is, after all, a fine detective, one that should be up for promotion to DI soon enough if he has any word to say on it.

Finally, she speaks: “Do you think that berk goes out for coffee?”

Greg chuckles. “Just throw in some cake, and he’ll be there.”

“Bit of a sweet tooth, heh?” She turns serious. “Do you think Watson will try to shoot me if I come near Holmes?”

Greg laughs openly, and she joins him soon enough. There might still be a chance for a universe where Sherlock Holmes and Sally Donovan will get along.


	12. “Who could do this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Humor; Crimes Against Cuisine; Fluff.   
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

“Who could do this?”

Sherlock’s mournful whimper stops John in his tracks, just-boiled kettle in one hand and two tea bags in the other. John had been preparing their evening tea while Sherlock browsed his phone for news, e-mails, posts on his blog and the like, searching for a new case or anything to learn for future ones.

His inbox is well-filled these days, so he takes his time to browse through potential clients. John is used to Sherlock’s short comments as he hops from e-mail to e-mail, usually dismissing most of them with ‘boring’, ‘inane’, ‘oh for the love of god’ and other more or less caustic remarks as he stabs his thumb on the delete button.

‘Who could do this’ is a new one, though. Especially in that tone, as if Sherlock cannot quite believe mankind would stoop as low as… well, whatever he was reading.

John stretches his neck to look at his partner. “Do what?”

Sherlock lifts his head from the phone and gazes at John with such a lost, frightened look that John all but throws the kettle and the tea bags onto the counter and strides into the living-room. Sherlock follows him with his eyes, and when John reaches his chair he can see Sherlock’s lower lip _quiver_.

John is now proper alarmed, but he soldiers on. Whatever— no, _whoever_ put Sherlock in a state is going to be in big trouble. “Show me.”

Sherlock slowly turns his phone to face John. John leans down and squints at the screen. On it there is… a recipe for spaghetti bolognese?

“Sherlock, what… what is the problem?”

“ _Look_ at it, John!” Sherlock shoves the phone accusatorily at John. “Who could _do this_?”

John is now thoroughly confused. “Presumably, anyone with a saucepan and the right ingredients?”

“John!”

“What, then?! It’s a bloody recipe, not a kicked puppy, what’s got into you?”

“John,” Sherlock replies as John was the densest person in the entire universe, “this is a crime against humanity.”

John just stares blankly at him. Sherlock sighs as he is forced to explain further.

“They used _cream_.”


	13. “Try harder, next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Mycroft Holmes & John Watson; Post Episode: The Abominable Bride; Mycroft Being Mycroft  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

John is never going to get used to Mycroft’s ‘kidnappings’.

He doesn’t really want to speak to Mycroft. He never really wants to speak with Mycroft, as the elder Holmes brother unnerves him still after all these years. These days, though, he finds even _less_ will to have any sort of exchange with him. He ponders ignoring the sleek black car that is tailing him since he got out of Sainsbury’s, but he knows that it will only make Mycroft use more forceful ways to ‘invite’ him for a little chat.

John sighs, exhaling the weariness of a thousand years, and gets in the car.

Usually, the vehicle simply takes John wherever Mycroft is, whether this is the Diogenes, his office in Vauxhall or, on one memorable and rather disconcerting occasion, his townhouse in Belgravia. Which is why John is surprised to see Mycroft in the car.

John throws himself onto the empty seat next to Mycroft and slams the door closed with more violence than necessary. “Whatever the hell you have to say, do it quickly. I am tired, I want to go home, I don’t want to see your face.”

“And a good evening to you too, Dr Watson.” If John’s sharp tone upset Mycroft, he is certainly not letting it show. “Do make yourself comfortable. I’d like a word; we’ll drop you on Baker Street soon enough.”

John throws the bag he was still holding to the floor of the car as it cruises through Marylebone. He sits back with a huff, crosses his arms and glares unblinking at Mycroft. “I’m waiting.”

To John’s astonishment, Mycroft shifts in his seat and hesitates before speaking — he looks _uncomfortable_.

“Years ago,” Mycroft finally finds words, “I asked you what your intentions were towards my brother.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “I recall stating it was none of your business.”

Mycroft smiles tightly. “Yes, well. We didn’t know each other then. But we do now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I expect a different answer this time around, John.” Mycroft holds John’s gaze steady, his initial disquiet tucked away behind his usual cold façade. “You left Mary, moved back to 221B—”

“Now hold just a damned minute!” John seethes. What the hell? Sherlock had been in no state to take care of himself after the OD on the jet that was supposed to take him into exile. _Mycroft himself_ had asked him to look after Sherlock. Does he think John could help Sherlock from a distance? “How the hell am I supposed to look after him _as you begged me to_ if I’m living across town?”

What John does not bring up is that he has indeed left Mary. Permanently. John’s willingness to drop everything to assist in Sherlock’s recovery made it painfully obvious where his priorities really are. And of course, Mycroft has picked up on this. Why he is being a complete prat about it now, though, is what John doesn’t understand.

Mycroft sighs deeply, just avoiding an eyeroll. “If you’re quite done vociferating your protests, perhaps you will now tell me if your moving back is a permanent move. Or will you leave him again as soon as some other charming woman with a notorious past catches your attention?”

John is bewildered at Mycroft’s venomous words, but a clearer picture of what is happening forms now in his head. “So, let me get this straight… you think I moved back just to care for your brother while he recovers, then I’ll go away. Is that it?”

“He was heartbroken when you chose Mary. Did you know he called me during your wedding’s reception, asking me to come and join the party?” 

John clamps his mouth shut.

“Do you understand how much of my brother’s heart is in your hands,” Mycroft whispers sadly.

“Mycroft, do you really think so little of me?” John whispers back. His chest is heavy, filled with a weight of regret and guilt. But what has happened is now in the past and he can’t change it. John knows that he only wants to be at Sherlock’s side, be it as a friend or something more. His heart is in Baker Street and has been for longer than he is willing to admit out loud. While he understands Mycroft’s reluctance, it does sting him to be so belittled after showing a level of commitment that rivals, nay, that surpasses Mycroft’s in recent years.

John’s had enough. He signals to Mycroft’s driver to stop. “You’re the one telling him that caring is not an advantage,” he spits out.

To his credit, Mycroft looks slightly ashamed. “I was only trying to protect him.”

The car rolls to a stop; John grabs his groceries and jumps out. Before slamming the door shut, he looks in one last time. “Try harder, next time.”


	14. “Some people call this wisdom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Fluff; Domestic Fluff; Implied Sexual Content   
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

“I do not understand why this troubles you so much.”

John grumbles an inaudible reply against Sherlock’s chest. He was having quite the lovely lazy morning in his lover’s arms, all soft-sleepy, waking up slowly to find himself comfortably nestled against Sherlock’s naked form.

Then Sherlock had decided to catalogue his greying hair.

Sherlock rakes John’s hair with his long fingers in a rhythmic, soothing caress. This would lull John right back into sleep if Sherlock wasn’t so adamant in talking about his ageing scalp.

“Petting is good, pointing out that I am old is not,” John mumbles, “more petting, less talking.”

“And _I’m_ the demanding one. I was just going to explain that the fact your melanocytes are losing capacity to replenish melanin is mostly controlled by genetics. Fascinating stuff, really, although there is some uncertainty about the exact mechanism, a gene was recently identified that is key to the process—”

“Sherlock. Shut. Up.” John’s protest carries no heat — but the searing kiss he uses to quieten Sherlock does. John smooths his hands along Sherlock’s ribs, eliciting a shiver of pleasure.

They break the kiss for some air. “John,” Sherlock whispers against his lips, “you look quite dashing.” He resumes his petting of John’s hair, seemingly lost in thought. “Some people call this wisdom.”

“That would explain why you haven’t start greying.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes in mock annoyance at John’s quip, then rolls them suddenly over until he’s lying on top. John laughs; he is always delighted when Sherlock lets his playful mood come forth.

“Then, Captain Watson, I will proceed to show you how juvenile I can be.”

Sherlock disappears under the duvet.


	15. “I thought you had forgotten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Fluff; Domestic Fluff  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

It’s fine. It’s _all_ fine.

I’m not one to observe random calendar events. Well, not exactly random, this one, I suppose. Nevertheless, the yearly observation of a past event with some sort of hideous _festive_ activity is pointless. If it’s in the past, why cling on to it? One cannot relive it to the full extent of the original occasion — especially if it was a particularly joyous one.

Which is precisely the case here, so. No point in celebrating this anniversary anyway.

Although… it is not like John to forget such _trivial_ commemorations. For example, he insists on going out for a slice of cake on my birthday. One would think that after the excesses of Christmastide, cake would be the last thing on one’s mind in early January. But this seems to be of little importance to John, who will always make sure I do not go uncelebrated.

_Irrelevant_. One can have cake any day. Why attribute a surplus of importance to certain days? _Sentiment_.

I hear steps on the staircase. _John_. Oh, is it evening already? He is back from the surgery, then. But his gait is light, instead of carrying the weariness of a day filled with dullness.

I open my eyes to find him standing next to the sofa. He’s shifting from foot to foot, hiding something behind his back as if it isn’t obvious.

He smiles at me, and the room is filled with sunlight again despite the late hour. _God_ , he is _beautiful_.

I stand up, and then it hits me: a delicate perfume, floral, growing in intensity, spreading throughout the flat. Oh. Oh!

“I brought these for you.” Oh, John. He presents me with a lovely bouquet of carefully arranged flowers, some of which I cannot even identify. “It took me a while to get this because I wanted exotic flowers.” He blushes. _Blushes_ , my brave soldier is _blushing_. “Just like you.”

My stupid mouth moves but does not make a sound; my stupid eyes fill with futile moisture. I reach for the bundle with shaking hands (why are they shaking?) and bury my nose in. I inhale deeply and close my eyes.

“You remembered. I… I thought, maybe…” I am _stammering_ , and I never stammer. John looks at me quizzically, of course. “I thought you had forgotten.”

John, my blogger, is the man with the flair for romantic words in this relationship of ours. That sort of vocabulary fails me, and therefore I cannot put in writing the expression on his face. But his voice was soft, the voice he uses when he wants to reassure me, to care for me, to hold me. It drips fondness, and it should be hateful.

It is anything but.

“You absolute loon, why would you think that? We have a table booked at Angelo’s tonight, remember?” He must see something in my face as I open my eyes to look at him again. Oh _Christ_ , now a bloody tear is running down my face. How humiliating. “Hey, love,” he reaches for my cheek and wipes the tear away, “happy first anniversary.” Oh, John, John, my John.

He pries the flowers from my hands and deposits them ever so gently on the coffee table. He could have teased me for my uncharacteristic emotional upheaval; he could have been exasperated at my forgetting our dinner date; he could have been offended at my suggestion _he_ had forgot about our anniversary. But my John, he does not do this. Instead, he wraps me in his arms as if I am something precious and delicate (and why do I not get offended at this? Why do I adore and crave his gentleness?), and whispers, “I love you.”

When I finally find my voice, it is to repeat these same words over and over again back at him, interrupting only to lay kisses on his face, his forehead, his lips. A year ago, I did the same, standing in this very room, when he told me these very words for the first time.

Some events are worth celebrating.


	16. “This is gonna be so much fun!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Jim Moriarty & John Watson; The Pool Scene; Light Angst; Missing Scene  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

_Headache. Nausea. Oh my god, nausea. What— where—_

A sharp smell invades his nostrils; something chlorinated? His head is killing him, and his stomach is roiling. He rolls to his side and dry-heaves; with nothing in his stomach, there is not much to throw up. He had been, after all, on his way to dinner with Sarah.

_Sarah_. Oh dear god, she’s going to be _furious_.

A swimming-pool. That’s what the smell is. He’s in a swimming-pool. He got himself kidnapped, _again_.

John opens his eyes slowly against the flickering light of a humming fluorescent lamp and sits up. As he regains sight, he finds two human-shaped shadows looming over him, one in some sort of ridiculous ninja-like outfit, and the other in an expensive-looking suit. Ninja-man is holding a gun level at John’s head and is impossible to recognize as he is wearing a balaclava.

Suit-man, though…

“J-Jim? From IT?”

“Hello, Johnny boy,” suit-man replies with a sunny Irish tilt, “you _do_ remember me. How sweet of you.” He crouches to face John. “Jim Moriarty. Hi!”

Moriarty. _Moriarty_. Molly’s boyfriend is Moriarty? John’s head is swimming, reeling with the effects of whatever drug he had been sedated with and this new information.

Moriarty smiles at him, a horrible, joyless smile. John is a seasoned ex-military, but something in Moriarty’s eyes makes him shiver: there is a contained madness, the gaze of a psychopath, vacant yet penetrating.

“So sorry to interrupt your evening like this, but I do need your help. We’re having a little meeting with a common friend in a short while.” Moriarty is gleeful, and John fights a new wave of nausea. A common friend? “He isn’t really expecting you — in fact, he waited until you left to book a rendezvous with me. Such a romantic!” Moriarty leans closer, so close John can feel his exhaled venom. “And while I would love to have a little tête-à-tête with him alone, I do think he’ll be _so_ happy to see you!”

Oh no. Sherlock. _Sherlock, what have you done? What is going to happen?_

“But first,” Moriarty springs up and twirls around, “some accessories.”

Horror builds up inside John as he realizes Moriarty is removing parts of a bomb vest from a box; he recognizes them easily enough from his time in Afghanistan.

But this time, it’s him who is to be the bearer. Clearly. John closes his eyes to not let show his despair as the future sequence of events rolls in his head: Sherlock being lured into this forsaken place; John meeting him with a bomb; the whole place going up in flames, them dying together this very night.

He almost accepts a bullet in his head instead of complying with Moriarty’s ‘request’ to wear the vest; but it’s no choice at all anyway, as like this he at least has a chance to somehow warn Sherlock, make him run for his life, bid his time. He has to hope they can manage out of this situation, or that at least Sherlock can.

John musters courage to speak as Moriarty fits a headset over his ear. “You will not get away with this. I might die here tonight, but you? You better run.”

Moriarty grins, malignant and delighted. “You are so transparent, Johnny boy. If we all play our cards well, nobody dies here tonight.” He gets close to John, lips almost brushing over his ear. “I will burn the heart out of him. And you will help me,” he murmurs. Moriarty leans back, still grinning. “Oh, this is gonna be _so_ much fun! Time to play, Johnny boy.”


	17. “I’ll tell you but you’re not gonna like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Texting; Domestic Fluff  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

_Meet me at Angelo’s for dinner? – SH_

I’m a bit tired, thought we could order in?

_Another reason for a relaxing evening out at Angelo’s. – SH_

Is this for a case?

_Why would it be for a case? – SH_

Since when do you do ‘relaxing evenings’?

_We do relaxing evenings all the time, John, really. – SH_

So it’s not for a case. You just want to go out for dinner.

_Marvelous deduction, John. – SH_

That’s lovely, but I really am very tired. How about I get something on the way home? We can go to Angelo’s some other day. My treat.

Any preferences? I was thinking Thai.

Sherlock?

_If you prefer Thai, we could go to that new one with the curtains on Marylebone Road. – SH_

Why are you so adamant on going out tonight?

_No reason at all. – SH_

Which means there is a reason. Start talking.

_I am offended at your thinking that every kind act of mine does not have your best interests in my mind. – SH_

Thanks Sherlock, that’s, well, I don’t know what to say. Rather sweet of you.

Except that you’re fibbing. Aren’t you? What did you do to the flat?

Sherlock?

ANSWER ME NOW OR I SWEAR TO GOD!!!

_I’ll tell you but you’re not going to like it. – SH_

Oh god.


	18. “You should have seen it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Past Drug Abuse; Light Angst; Hopeful Ending; Post Episode: The Lying Detective  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

Another day, another round of nannying. _Dull_.

Sherlock knows, however, he brought this on himself. Despite his best attempts at convincing the world around him that he is not an addict, he had fallen badly this time. Culverton Smith had been such a bad excuse to hide his real reasons to turn back to the lull of a certain seven percent solution.

Who is he trying to fool? He _is_ an addict. And there’s very little in this world that will prevent him to go out and get high.

Currently, one such reason – unarguably the best of them – is sitting in front of him.

John.

Not dull. No, not John.

John would physically restrain Sherlock if necessary (it isn’t) but just the fact that John is sitting here, keeping him company, caring for him, _about_ him, well… that is all that Sherlock ever needs.

Not all he _wants_ ; but Sherlock has learned a long time ago he can’t always get what he wants. So.

Sherlock pretends to be engrossed in his phone, scrolling through whichever news site he distractedly thumbs on. It gives him the ideal cover to sneak glances up to John, who is sitting in his chair, quietly reading the newspaper. Or rather, staring at a fixed point on a random page – not reading.

Years ago, ages ago, Sherlock would not have thought much about this. He would not have reacted at all. So what if John had his mind elsewhere? But these days, after all they went through, after all they talked, after holding a sobbing John Watson in his arms – these days, Sherlock makes an effort, because John is worth it.

“John? Anything on your mind?”

John blinks as if waking up from a dream and smiles sadly at him. “Yeah, no. Well…” He clears his throat, looking around the room, then again at Sherlock. He’s about to say something, Sherlock can sense it, but somehow the words don’t seem to come easily.

Sherlock does not press. He waits, patiently. Gives a (hopefully) friendly smile back.

“I just realized,” John finally continues, “that I never actually apologised.”

Sherlock frowns. “Apologise to whom?”

“To you, you berk,” John huffs with an eye-roll, trying for levity. But he is wary, waves of uncertainty wafting from his tense posture, that little pinched wrinkle on his forehead that tells Sherlock tales of unslept nights and worry-filled days. “For the thing. In the morgue. For the…” He gestures towards Sherlock’s head. “The beating.”

Oh. No, in fact he had not apologised for this, but what of it? Sherlock knows they were both out of sorts, him high as a kite, John grieving, both being pushed to that place where they became untethered and unhinged.

“I don’t blame you, John. It’s past—”

“Stop it. Stop it right there.” And as Sherlock pauses, John opens his floodgates. “See, this is the problem. When it comes to the two of us, I am always your number one priority, regardless of the consequences for you. Yes, I did well in restraining you before you could put a scalpel through Culverton Smith but hitting you like that after was. Christ, it was unnecessary, it was violent, it was not okay, it was _not okay_ , Sherlock—”

“John, please, _breathe_ —”

“—And I am _sorry_!” There are unshed tears in John’s eyes, and Sherlock’s heart breaks all over again. “I am sorry I hit you, blaming you for the death of a woman that tried to kill you!”

“I have long forgiven Mary for her—”

“No!” John shakes his head, dismissing Sherlock’s reassurances. “I have been thinking and thinking and thinking about this, and all I could think was ‘You should have seen it. You should have seen it, John Watson.’ That she wasn’t what she said she was, that she had a past, that it was too much of a good coincidence when she showed up in my life, that, that, oh _god_!”

John hides his face in his hands and breathes ragged breaths, trying to calm himself down.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to do, so he does the only thing he’s ever done that seemed to help: he slips from his own armchair, kneeling on the floor in front of John, and places a gentle hand on his knee.

“I forgive you, John,” he adds quietly. “Please stop beating yourself too over this. All the what-ifs in the world will not erase the past.”

John looks up from his hands with red-rimmed eyes and an expression of amazement. Again, he can’t quite find the words.

“I know I didn’t deserve the amount of violence I suffered from your hands,” and John closes his eyes hearing these words from Sherlock, accepting the sting with a tiny nod, “but I also know this belongs now in the past, and it will become more and more of a distant memory.”

John opens his eyes and stretches a hand to gently touch Sherlock’s split eyebrow. “You are a wonder, Sherlock Holmes, and don’t ever let anyone convince you of anything else.” He slides the tips of his fingers through s few wild curls over Sherlock’s temple. “Thank you.”

Sherlock allows himself to relish in the small touch and in the intimacy of the moment. In a minute or so, he will gather the courage to close the gap between them, searching John’s eyes to find out that yes, it is a feeling reciprocated. But for now, he lets the newfound peace blanket them, give them a foundation to work on, fill the silence with warmth and harmony.

Because everything that has ever happened, and everything that could ever have happened, has led them to this point in time. And there could never have been any other way to end.


	19. “Oh please, like this is the worst I have done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes; Missing Scene; Angst  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

Ten metres. That is all the distance that separates the Holmes brothers. It would be a short distance, one easy to cross, if it wasn’t for the fact that Sherlock is surrounded by four solid walls making up a solitary prison cell, while Mycroft paces a room as a free man.

Free, technically, yes; but the fact that he let himself be drugged and have his laptop almost used as an exchange coin for a blackmailer sits badly on his otherwise impeccable reputation.

To be fair, his reputation is the last thing on his mind. He had been fooled by his younger brother, but this becomes a minor detail in comparison to the mess Sherlock created by shooting Magnussen in front of way too many witnesses.

There is no way Mycroft can contain this. There must be consequences, and he’s been hard at work to negotiate the exact extent of such consequences. He now has two alternatives to present to Sherlock, and none of them is good for anyone.

As a guard finally shows up to take Mycroft to a private visiting room, he steels himself. No space for sentimentalities now.

Sherlock sits at a small table in a chromed chair, his hands chained and placidly placed on the table top. Mycroft sits across him and observes his brother: Sherlock looks pale but somewhat rested; he’s wearing ill-fitting prison-issued clothes but that doesn’t affect his posture, regal as ever. He has a blank expression on his face and follows Mycroft’s movements with his eyes.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft starts cautiously, “you’ve really done a number on yourself this time.” He’s not here to berate Sherlock but he can’t help himself. The last forty-eight hours have been absolute hell for Mycroft and he’s not in a forgiving mood. “I have managed to convince the people that need convincing that this was not premeditated murder but rather an act equipollent to temporary insanity.”

“Euclidian geometry as a metaphor? How positively ordinary, Mycroft.” Despite the snark, there is no bite in Sherlock’s reply. He’s looking at the table, suddenly interested in a stain that he keeps probing with a finger pad.

Mycroft ignores Sherlock’s response, seeing it for what it is: a defence mechanism, a way to shield himself and avoid outwardly demonstrations of emotion. “I have two proposals to lay on the table, and you will take one of them. In fact, you have been graciously granted the privilege to choose what will become of you. I, of course, have a personal preference, but—”

“Do not insult me by actually describing me both scenarios. I’ll take the Eastern Europe job.”

Mycroft is sincerely taken aback by this. Not that he expected Sherlock to not guess — _deduce_ — the options. What shocks Mycroft is that he would choose the least logical of them. “Sherlock…”

“Mycroft. You of all people should understand why.”

“I don’t understand how you were capable of killing a man in cold blood, in the first place.”

“Oh _please_ , like this is the worst I have done.”

Mycroft slams a fist on the table. “Curse you, Sherlock, this _is_ the worst thing you have ever done! What were you _thinking_?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to look shocked at Mycroft’s outburst but he composes himself quickly enough and adds softly, “Please, brother mine, let’s not discuss motivations and excuses. I’ll take the Eastern Europe job.”

“It’s a death sentence—”

“I am aware—”

“Do you have any idea what this will do to John Watson?”

Sherlock closes his eyes as if he could erase Mycroft’s words. “Yes,” he whispers.

Mycroft looks sadly at his little brother. He who played pirates as a little boy; he who learned how to do deductions with Mycroft’s help; he who studied Chemistry and abused less innocent chemicals; he who made himself a reputation and a unique job title.

He who repressed emotions to enhance his intellectual skills but was overwhelmed by his love to one certain army doctor.

Mycroft understands that there is a point of no return for Sherlock and this is it. The point where Sherlock decides he will take his broken heart and disappear as a hero in the eyes of the one person he has ever loved, instead of fading away in a prison cell, locked with his own demons. It is not a sacrifice; it is liberation.

How can Mycroft deny him this?

“I meant it when I said your loss would break my heart,” says Mycroft, reminiscing their words just before the world came crashing down.

Sherlock looks up at him, eyes clear and soft. “I will miss you, brother mine.”


	20. “I hope you have a speech prepared.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade; Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Johnlock; gratuitous abuse of present continuous  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

“—and as you must realise, the chief superintendent wants to use this as a positive reinforcement of the Met’s image to the general public. Such a high-profile case being solved so swiftly, with those kids being rescued before they could be harmed, it’s really stellar.”

Despite his awareness that Sherlock is — naturally — ignoring him, Greg rambles on. He’s still riding the high of solving this case, the case of a sadistic serial murderer targeting teenagers. Three deaths had occurred and two kids fitting the victims’ profile had since disappeared when Greg brought Sherlock in. Twenty-three gruelling hours later, the kids had been found and rescued, the perpetrator arrested, and the media had gone _wild_ with praise.

This means it’s time to milk the cow. And, given that Sherlock is still rebuilding his reputation after coming back from the dead, this is also going to be good publicity for him. At least, that’s what Greg thinks. So here he is at 221B Baker Street, trying to convince the consulting detective to show up on the big finale.

Sherlock’s scowl tells him otherwise. “Do you really expect me to join the circus of a press conference again?”

Greg cringes, guilt invading him with the memory of the last press conference he ever convinced Sherlock to attend. Fair point, he has to admit. Sherlock unpacking the deerstalker and being coaxed into wearing it in front of dozens of cameras, a fake smile plastered on his face, looking like he wanted to be a million miles away.

“It wouldn’t be like last time, Sherlock. I will make sure of it.”

John, who had been silent in his armchair the whole time while Greg tried to convince Sherlock to attend the press conference, lightened immediately the mood. “Well, Greg,” he quipped, with a half-smile, “I hope you have a speech prepared. Or do you really want him,” he gives a short jerk of his chin towards Sherlock, “to declare whatever he wants in front of the nation’s media?”

Greg glances at Sherlock, trying to gauge whether the man is hurt by John’s blatant lack of confidence in Sherlock’s diplomatic skills. But all he sees is Sherlock trying to supress a smile while adding, “I am certainly not investing any intellectual work on this inanity. Might as well do as John suggests.”

Sherlock and John look at each other and exchange a whole conversation without uttering a single word. Greg has been around these two long enough to be able to read it: there is fondness, teasing, a deep connection thrumming between them, something undefinable yet so very solid, like a rope that ties them together, yet gives them all the necessary slack to move around each other.

There is really not much more arguing to be done here. “Alright; if I write a few words, will you _please_ attend the conference and smile and wave?” Greg is pleading but also seeing that Sherlock is about to agree to this. When he finally does, Greg releases a breath of relief.

As he is about to leave for the Met with the good news to his chief super, Greg witnesses yet another silent conversation; but this time, there is also the slight squeeze of a forearm accompanying a warm smile, a softening of expressions, an exchange of gratitude and affection. Greg hurries down the stairs, wanting to leave the two men to their intimacy and catching a joyful, fleeting thought in his mind:

_Finally_.


	21. “Impressive, truly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Sherlock Holmes & Mrs Hudson & John Watson; Humor; gratuitous abuse of implied crassness  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

“My goodness, John, that is _really_ large,” Sherlock exclaims, obviously impressed.

John’s reply is filled with pride. “Yep!”

“Impressive, truly. How do you manage to use it?”

John laughs heartily in lieu of a reply.

And in the kitchen, Mrs Hudson freezes, wide-eyed.

 

Mrs Hudson had not meant to eavesdrop. She had simply gone up to her boys’ flat under the assumption they were out for the day, as usual. She’s not their housekeeper, no, but a little dusting and a little tidying doesn’t really count, does it? And so, Mrs Hudson had quietly climbed the seventeen steps (her hip was giving her hell today, and she had to move slowly), duster in hand, and stepped in from the landing into their kitchen.

And as she was about to tut loudly at the piled dishes in the sink, she heard it.

 

Sherlock’s bedroom’s door is closed, and muffled voices float from within. Quite distinctively John’s and Sherlock’s.

Now, Mrs Hudson is no prude, and she has long believed her boys should be together as more than just friends. But the crassness of the overheard dialogue stops her in her tracks.

“You can’t go around with it hanging like that, John, people will notice.”

“But it’s a gift!”

“Why am I being the reasonable one here? It hardly fits in your hands!”

John laughs again, a happy, bubbly laugh that fills Mrs Hudson’s heart with joy. The earlier tension leaves her body, and she decides for a quick retreat downstairs to leave the boys to their… _examinations_.

Unfortunately, her hip _really_ is acting today, and a false step makes her kick a kitchen chair, sending it skipping and clattering over the floor.

Sherlock’s door opens, and he hurries out. “Mrs Hudson? Everything alright?”

“Oh, uh, yes, yes, sorry dear, I was on my way out, never mind me. Was just going to do some dusting, thought you boys were out.” She feels herself fluster and stumble over words, but better not to lie – Sherlock will see right through her.

He narrows his eyes. “Ah, no, we’re having a day in. John is showing me–”

“Really, dear, I don’t need to know details about what John is showing you!”

As she quickly cries these words at a very confused Sherlock, John comes out of Sherlock’s bedroom with a box in his hands. “Hello, Mrs Hudson; everything alright?”

She eyes the box suspiciously; John notices her curiosity. “Oh, would you like to see it too?”

“John Watson!” Mrs Hudson is now proper scandalised, beetroot-red and more than a little bit miffed. “Really, what kind of proposition is that! At my age!” In defiance of her troublesome hip, she skitters down the staircase as fast as she can manage.

 

“What was that all about?” John places the box down on the kitchen table and opens it.

“No idea. Maybe too many herbal soothers?”

“Well, maybe it was for the best she didn’t see this,” John picks a firearm from the box, an antique, brass-coloured, very long-barrelled Colt revolver, “she never really got over the holes on the living-room wall.”


	22. “I know how you love to play games.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Friends to Lovers; gratuitous abuse of card game metaphors  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

An uncharacteristically thick blanket of snow covers London and muffles the few sounds that seep through the windows of 221b, down to a dull white background noise.

Inside, the fire crackles in the hearth. It’s one of those quiet evenings, when there is no case to work on, no work the next day at the surgery, nowhere to be other than the comfort of the flat. The food has been eaten, the washing up has been done, and there’s nothing worth watching on the telly.

It is just the two of them, sitting in their respective armchairs, enjoying the peace and a tumbler of expensive whisky. John has a forgotten book on his lap, and Sherlock has set aside his mobile. They focus on the here and the now, on the slow burn of the alcohol down their throats, on the spreading warmth from the fireplace and from within, on each other’s relaxed gazes, locked eyes scrutinising each other’s innermost thoughts.

Yet, the air between them is thick with undeclared feelings, thrumming with the expectation of the first word, the first movement, the first courageous step forward. Something still holds them back, though: fear of loss and misunderstanding twining into one package of misery. They can both see it, _observe_ it. But it is all so unspoken.

Until Sherlock sighs. And dares. “Must we continue to hold this wall of silence?”

“What is the alternative?” John’s reply is tentative, cautious. “We never talk about important things.”

“Perhaps it’s time we start doing so.”

“Oh? And what then?” John is filled with sadness. So much to win, so much to lose. “Is this when we lay the cards on the table and find out we are playing different games?”

“It’s not a game, John.” Sherlock frowns, affronted. “How can you think that of me?”

“I know how you love to play games. And how easily bored you get, and how you strive for change. Why would I… why would _this_ ,” he waves between the two of them, “be any different?”

Sherlock sets his glass on the side table, slumps into his armchair, and lowers his gaze to the floor between them. He looks small and defeated. “After all this time, I feel you don’t know me at all.”

And with these words, John’s heart breaks, tiny small shards cutting him bloody inside. “I’m–– scared, Sherlock.”

“I know. I only have myself to blame.”

“No, don’t say that, I…” John hates himself so much right now, which is in fact an extension of how much he has hated himself all his life. Why can he not step forward and accept what is being given to him on a silver plate? Why does he deprive himself of the love from the one person that has always meant the whole world to him?

Why is he such a coward?

John decides he is tired, so very tired of this inner hate and cowardice, this knot of permanent anxiety and distrust that rusts his soul away. Tired of unhappiness, tired of holding back. Tired of the inner voice telling him it’s wrong and dangerous and ‘I’m not gay’.

He sets his own glass down and gets up from the armchair. Sherlock follows him with sad but expectant eyes as John steps forward. One step, then another, against the treacle of all that tries to hold him back.

This time, he will be brave.

John slides up on one arm of Sherlock’s chair and enjoys his look of surprise when he simply wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “I love you more than anything in this life, Sherlock Holmes,” he adds quietly, his voice causing the smallest of ripples through the peaceful atmosphere.

Sherlock looks up at him and stretches his long neck; John meets him halfway, a light touch of lips on lips that soon grows firmer, warmer, slicker. John finds himself sliding down into Sherlock’s lap, and they embrace for long minutes, their kissing only interrupted for moments of catching their breaths, locking mouths again and again in increasing hunger. John gives himself; Sherlock follows suit.

 

Later, after the fire has died down and the snow has started falling again, as they lay in each other’s arms, John finally allows himself to believe this is no house of cards they are building together. It is not even the start; that beginning of it all was years ago, with ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’, with a bullet through a window, with late Chinese and giggles at a crime scene.

It’s not a game anymore.


	23. “This is not new, it only feels like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Fluff; Implied Sexual Content  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

Sherlock had no idea it could be like this.

Well. He had a general idea of how it could be. After all, there had been Victor back at uni. In retrospect, that relationship did not hold a candle to the present one, although it had been nice enough while it lasted. After their falling out, Sherlock had lost interest in investing himself emotionally to such a high degree. Simply not worth the effort.

Until now.

Sherlock nuzzles his nose on John’s hair. They are spread on Sherlock’s bed, and John is idly dozing on Sherlock’s chest, arms around his waist. Sherlock has one arm around John’s back and is drawing nonsensical patterns with his fingertips along John’s spine and shoulder blades, which elicits contented sighs from his sleepy lover.

Is ‘lover’ even the correct word? John is so much more than a warm body in his bed. John is his best friend, his steadfast companion, his sounding board, his conductor of light. Even now, the early morning rays of sun that peek between the curtains seem to find John, caress his skin, make it glow warm and golden and smooth.

John’s hair smells a bit minty, a bit sweaty, a bit sexy. Sherlock still can’t believe his luck, that he gets to have this now, John in his arms, the assurance that yes, his feelings are returned. It had all started with an awkward conversation late in the evening that evolved into confessions and apologies and promises. And kisses, and more kisses, and hunger, and ecstasy, and intimacy, and so, so much love.

“I can hear you thinking.” John’s sleepy mumbling against Sherlock’s chest startles him into hugging John closer. John looks up, bleary-eyed and soft. Are his eyes bluer this morning? “Hello there, gorgeous.”

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock places a gentle kiss on John’s forehead. “It is not possible to listen to one’s thoughts as they do not emit sound waves in the audible range.”

“Hmm, maybe so.” John smooths a hand up Sherlock’s body and lands it on his face, a thumb swiping gently on his cheekbone. “But I could still sense your brain working a bit extra. What’s on your mind?”

John, beautiful John, calling him gorgeous and petting him and being so attuned to Sherlock’s every mood. “I was just thinking how lucky I am to have this new thing between us.” He feels himself redden a bit at the sentimentality of his words, but they are out now, syrupy as they may be.

“This is not new; it only feels like it.” They are a few short words, but Sherlock feels them hitting the core of him as an absolute truth. Not for the first time, Sherlock wonders if it’s not John who is the real genius here. This is not new, no. It started… when? Somehow, even if them as an item are a new thing, it feels like this had always existed in a plane of its own, and John and Sherlock had simply materialised into it, falling into the flowing waters of their inevitable destiny.

Was there ever a time Sherlock and John did not belong to each other?

“Not sure if it even feels new, John. Haven’t we always been here?”

John smiles and brightens the room just that little bit more. “I think we might have, yes.”

And when John stretches up and kisses him, Sherlock can only agree, as they swim along the current, together. As always.


	24. “You know this, you know this to be true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; The Hiatus; Post-Reichenbach; Light Angst  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

Another dingy hotel room. At least, he’ll sleep on a bed tonight.

Sherlock throws his duffel bag on the floor and collapses on the mattress, nose buried on a lumpy pillow smelling of cheap laundry detergent. Once, the rough texture of the pillowcase would have grated on his nerves. Now, it’s a welcome change from the park bench, his bed for the last four days while he gathered intelligence on a particularly notorious member of Moriarty’s network.

In comparison, this is absolute luxury, and Sherlock will not complain. Unfortunately, the lull in activity means he has time to rest and be alone with his thoughts. Again. As it has been the last eighteen months.

But not quite alone, no. In his mind, he talks to the companion he left behind in London. John has etched himself permanently in Sherlock’s imagination, where he continues to listen and comment and praise and berate Sherlock.

“I miss you, John,” Sherlock murmurs to the empty bedroom, to the John in his head.

_Yeah, I’d miss you too if I knew you were alive_ , mind-John replies.

“You are a figment of my imagination, therefore a part of me and thus, technically, you do know I am alive.”

How many ways can you tell yourself a lie? John – the real John – thinks Sherlock is dead. The radio silence after the last blog post spoke mountains; there was nothing more of interest to tell about their life together, because that had ceased to exist. And so, Sherlock concludes that John has probably moved on, forgotten about him. Maybe Sherlock is just a fond memory, or–

_Stop it, you enormous berk. I miss you horribly._

“Why would you? I was more trouble than you ever signed up for. You know this– you know this to be true.” Sherlock finds himself swallowing a sob. Why is mind-John now an expression of his own wishful thinking? That was not his role; his role was to listen to Sherlock while he rambled and deduced; to be his conductor of light.

But it’s like comparing a torch to the midday sun.

Does the real John miss him? Does he miss him like Sherlock misses John?

“I will come back to you, John,” Sherlock mumbles wetly against the pillow while slowly falling into a deep slumber. “I will come back.”


	25. “Go forward, do not stray.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes; Missing Scene; Post-Reichenbach; Light Angst  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at the scene before him: Sherlock looms at his doorstep, half-dried blood caked under his nose and staining his white shirt.

“Not. A. Word. Mycroft.” Sherlock shoves past Mycroft and makes a bee line to the bathroom, shutting the door loudly after him.

Mycroft decides he will need a whisky. They both will.

 

When Sherlock appears in the library, he looks so defeated Mycroft has to fight an impulse to get up from his armchair and hug him. Sherlock has changed into pyjamas and a dressing gown and managed to clean the blood from his face. Mycroft attempts to look relaxed in front of the cosy crackling fireplace and nods to the second glass of whisky. “A small nightcap, brother mine?”

Sherlock slumps into the opposite chair. Mycroft’s library is compact and intimate, its walls covered in overfilled bookshelves, just enough space for the armchairs and a coffee table in front of the hearth. It’s the smallest room of Mycroft’s otherwise spacious townhouse but also his favourite, the place he retreats to when he wants a quiet evening in having a book (or some hundreds) for company. Rarely, he has someone sitting opposite to him; often, that person is Sherlock, and he almost never visits.

Coming back to London directly from Serbia, Mycroft thought prudent to have Sherlock staying a few days with him, before querying about the possibility to return to Baker Street. His little brother was still recovering from a very bruised back, and lord knows the extent of the mental damage brought by torture and captivity. Now, it seemed he might have to recover from more than that.

“Does that need further medical attention?” Mycroft nods to Sherlock’s nose; he knows the question is unnecessary, as the answer is right before him. But he wants to break the wall Sherlock is trying to put around him, find out details of his reunion with John Watson. Obviously, things had not gone smoothly. As expected, really.

“Of course not,” Sherlock huffs, “it’s just a bit bruised.”

“I take it your Dr Watson was less than exhilarated to find out he had been misled all this time about your… status.”

Mycroft expects Sherlock to clam up and avoid the subject altogether in his usual haughty fashion. However, Sherlock instead does something he hasn’t done for a long time with Mycroft: he opens up. He lowers his eyes to the fluffy carpet that runs the length of the library, opens and closes his mouth in a few false starts to a conversation and finally lets go: “He’s not my Dr Watson any longer.” His voice is small and tired, and it breaks Mycroft’s otherwise well-sealed heart.

“Sherlock…”

“What am I to do? What was I expecting?” Sherlock raises wet eyes at Mycroft, his breath ragged with unshed tears. “Yes, you were right, satisfied? You were right,” and the last scrapes of energy go into a pathetic attempt to inject venom in his voice.

Mycroft is quite immune to Sherlock’s brand of poisonous words. He’s heard them in a number of different situations and is aware that most of the times they are an attempt to redirect attention away from his emotional unrest. It is also at times like these Mycroft knows he should do what he is best at: to reassure Sherlock in their very own special way.

“Brother mine, I often say – and I do detest to repeat myself – that caring is not an advantage, that sentiment distorts reason and dulls the mind. But I find myself questioning this view these days.” Sherlock looks surprised at him, but Mycroft is not deterred. “Obviously, in your case, caring gave you the strength to endure two and a half years of misery. And caring will continue to provide you with that same strength. If I would give you one advice, it would be this: go forward; do not stray. Do not abandon that path you’ve been taking for so long now, because it is the path that makes you human.”

Sherlock stares at his older brother, confusion giving way to comprehension. He relaxes minutely, grabs his tumbler and takes a delicate sip. Minutes of silence pass by, only interrupted by the logs popping and crackling in the fireplace; Sherlock seems to be processing something – perhaps his brother’s words, perhaps the events of the evening, or a combination of both. He finally sets the glass down and looks at Mycroft with a posture more regal and blank than his casual attire would give away:

“Take me through the details of this terrorist plot.”


	26. “But if you cannot see it, is it really there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson  
> FTIR stands for Fourier transform infrared [spectroscopy].  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

“Spectroscopy!”

Sherlock’s exclamation startles John from his half-sleepy, afterwork tea drinking. “What?” He looks over his shoulder to Sherlock, who has straightened himself from his microscope at the kitchen table and is grinning like a maniac at him.

“Spectroscopy, John! Or, to be more precise, FTIR! That’s what we need to analyse these samples!” Sherlock jumps off his chair and starts pacing towards the living-room. “Of course, it’s so obvious! I cannot understand how I did not think of it before. Spectroscopy can measure anything!”

John tastes the acronym ‘FTIR’ mentally; it nudges something in his memories of organic chemistry classes. “Sounds a bit improbable that FTIR would be able to measure anything.”

“Are you being obtuse on purpose? I said that spectroscopy can measure anything, not FTIR in specific. There are hundreds of different techniques covering essentially the whole expanse of the electromagnetic spectrum, from gamma rays to microwaves. Everything emits radiation of some sort, _ergo_ everything can be measured.” Sherlock plops himself down in his armchair facing John, a look of determination on his face.

John puts down his tea mug. “There are things that are not quantifiable, Sherlock. Not everything can be measured with science.”

“Nonsense. Spectroscopy sees everything.”

“Not everything is visible,” John replies softly.

“But if you cannot see it, is it really there? And when I say ‘see’, I do not mean only whatever falls within the range of the visible spectrum,” Sherlock clarifies pointedly.

_Love, you buffoon_. John takes a moment to ponder how to explain this to the man. Surely they can attempt to keep the conversation on the scientific side, without John showing his hand? “Well, despite you dismissing emotions, they are not quantifiable by some spectrometer. How would you measure love?”

Sherlock tilts his head sideways, an adorable small frown of confusion crinkling on the bridge of his nose. Oh, how John wants to kiss that very spot. He tries not to stare.

“John, that’s preposterous. Surely one can measure love through hormonal variations associated with its various manifestations, such as lust, attraction, arousal, affection?”

“Well, that’s part of it, yes,” John replies cautiously, “but the amount of love, or how deep it is can’t really be quantified like that.”

Sherlock’s gaze slides distractedly to the mantle over the fireplace. He seems to ponder for a minute or so about what John has argued before adding, “Maybe not measurable with spectroscopy, but measurable all the same.”

“Oh? How?”

“Well,” Sherlock swallows… nervously? John is now very alert, and his heart starts thrumming faster in his chest as Sherlock continues, “you make sure I am well-fed and rested, you protect me, even shot a man dead when you thought me in danger…” Sherlock trails off and continues to avoid John’s eyes, instead being suddenly very interested in some completely uninteresting point on the mantle.

John starts stammering. “Yes, um. Yeah, that’s. That’s because I. Do love you. You’re my best friend. I, I, I care, of course, I care.”

Sherlock finally seems to gather enough courage to look back at John. There’s sadness and hope and joy and doubt behind his crystal-clear eyes. “Four storeys high.”

It’s John’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“How high I fell.” He pauses, as John takes in what Sherlock is telling him.

Four storeys high. Measurable.


	27. “Remember, you have to remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Garridebs; Light Hurt/Comfort  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

Sherlock stomps to his music stand and goes through the ritual of preparing to play violin: the bow is tightened, rosin is applied, the violin tuned.

John slumps exhausted into his blessed soft armchair and observes his friend while he launches himself into some sort of demented medley arranged for strings.

It had been a bloody mess, quite literally. A surprisingly armed suspect, a gunshot, a bullet grazing John’s thigh and ruining his second-best pair of jeans. Sherlock completely losing it, tackling the culprit to the ground; the man had escaped his ire with only a concussion and a black eye thanks to the prompt arrival of Scotland Yard’s finest.

There is a lot of dried-in blood on John’s trousers, but he doesn’t care about it right now. After his explosion of fury at John’s aggressor, Sherlock had been eerily quiet on the trip back to Baker Street. John felt his silence, heavy with unspoken emotion, the sort Sherlock cannot quite process. Or doesn’t want to.

John wants to rip Sherlock out of his cocoon, the one he built thread by thread, wrapping himself against the emotional turmoil thrown at him by the day’s events.

_Come on, Watson. Patience. Remember, you have to remember– this is how he deals with sentiment._

And so, John waits. He sits and listens to Sherlock going through agitated pieces that later mellow into sad adagios and requiems. A good twenty minutes later, Sherlock sets his violin down in its case, walks in silence to the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

On a whim, John decides to follow him into the kitchen.

“John, sit down, you need to rest your leg.” Sherlock stares at the kettle as if willing it to boil water faster.

“I’m fine, Sherlock. I told you, it was just a graze.”

John is no masochist, but the way Sherlock looks at him now makes this wound, a thousand wounds worth their while. He reads naked fear in Sherlock’s eyes. And because he knows words are simultaneously superfluous and insufficient, John takes a step forward and wraps his arms clumsily around his friend’s shoulders.

Sherlock stiffens at first but quickly relaxes into the embrace as the water gently roils in the kettle. “I would have killed him.”

“I know.”

“I can’t lose you,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s hair. “You are essential.”

John aims for a light tone, tries to break the weight of the moment. “Oh, like a vitamin?”

“Like oxygen.”

John tightens his arms around Sherlock, a lump in his throat.

The kettle clicks off.


	28. “I felt it. You know what I mean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & Victor Trevor; Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Past Viclock  
> Originally posted on Tumblr. This ficlet is dedicated to [7PercentSolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution), whose excellent story [Extricate—An Ex Files Special](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504154/chapters/33508653) inspired me to write this. (This is not an attempt to follow up _Extricate_ , but rather a way to heal my poor heart after all that angst.)

“Hello, Sherlock.”

John watches as Sherlock is positively petrified at the sight of their new (potential) client. _Uh-oh – this is someone he knows._

Sherlock swallows visibly, but then seems to shake himself off from the momentary state of shock he had fallen into. He smooths down his lapels and straightens his spine. “Victor.” Sherlock steps forward an extends a hand. “Nice to see you. You look… well.”

The client – _Victor_ , John amends in his head – replies with a soft smile, “You too, Sherlock.”

The two men gaze at each other for a long silent moment. John feels… extraneous. Obviously, they have met before, and they have a history. _Together_. Quite suddenly, John is receiving answers to questions he asked himself a long time ago, and to questions he never dared asking at all.

It is Sherlock who breaks the silence and drags a chair out of the table. “Please, do sit down. I take this is not a social visit.”

Victor’s smile falters ever so slightly but he does take the seat. “It is also a social visit, Sherlock. Although I do admit I had no idea if you would want to see me.”

John decides to make himself scarce – despite burning with curiosity, he’s not in a mood to watch this meeting between exes. As he retreats into the landing, Sherlock shouts for him.

“John! Where are you going? We have a client; sit down.”

John vacillates at the doorstep but gives in and crosses the room, sitting down with as much dignity as he can muster. He takes a good look at Victor: the man is well-built, athletic, with sandy blond hair and sapphire blue eyes. ‘Handsome’ doesn’t even begin to describe him, and John can see what a striking pair these two would have made. _Did_ make.

Sherlock clears his throat. “It’s been a long time. It’s, erm, nice to see old friends.”

Victor smiles warmly at him. “That’s– that’s good. I thought maybe you were still mad at me,” he chuckles, self-deprecating, not quite amused.

“I was never mad at you, Victor. I just– I couldn’t– you didn’t deserve– you deserved– you deserved more.”

John wants to disappear. Perhaps his armchair could open a portal to another dimension this very minute?

Oblivious to John’s suffering (and his presence, it seems), Victor continues to address Sherlock. “You _were_ mad at me. I felt it. You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“You were the one cutting all ties.” Victor’s reply carries no accusation, just a weary regret.

John makes a move to get up from his chair. “Maybe I’ll just go and see if Mrs Hudson has some biscuits–”

“Sit _down_ , John.” There is a begging tone in Sherlock’s request that John cannot ignore; he therefore sits back without a single word.

This exchange has at least had the effect to make Victor notice John and shift the subject to the primary motive of his visit. John doesn’t quite catch everything they discuss, as there is background information from their pasts that they gloss over, but in essence Victor needs to track lost relatives in England. As he lives permanently in the US and cannot afford a prolonged visit these days, he thought of Sherlock, and here he is. Sherlock accepts the case; the men say their goodbyes, a handshake just on the side of too long, an unblinking exchange of apologies without words.

After Victor’s departure, Sherlock sinks back into his armchair and closes his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Despite the nugget of jealousy, John wants, above all, to make sure Victor’s visit isn’t stirring old demons in Sherlock. He’s not expecting an answer other than ‘fine’, which is why he is surprised as Sherlock becomes more verbose than anticipated.

“As you have undoubtedly deduced, Victor is my ex… My ex.” His cheeks redden slightly. “He is correct when he claims I was the one cutting all ties. I did it to allow him to thrive, instead of being stuck with someone like me.”

John blinks, confused. “What do you mean, someone like you? Why would that be a problem?”

Sherlock opens sad eyes and smiles at John, that soft, private smirk only John gets to see. Maybe Victor was the recipient of such smiles, once upon a time? “Someone emotionally stumped. Unavailable.”

Emotionally stumped? Sherlock is anything but – and John knows this, he knows his partner well enough to be able to call his bullshit. “You are not ‘emotionally stumped’, Sherlock. I don’t know what that guy did to you to make you think that, but I guarantee you–” John is interrupted by Sherlock’s low-rumbling chuckles and a shake of his curly head.

“My dear John,” he continues, mirth in his tone, “always so protective of me.” He takes a moment to mull over his next words. “It was all perfect when it was fresh and new and there were no difficulties. But as life happened, we started sliding along each other as tectonic plates. The geological metaphor is apt: one could say this resulted in an earthquake. We just… we just missed each other, and the moment was gone.” Sherlock lowers his gaze to his own lap and adds in a whisper, “I thought the moment, the perfect conjunction of having someone in my life that fits me would never come back.”

John tries to not show how his heart is breaking over this confession, and against his better judgement – and private will – he asks, “Do you want to try to have that moment back? To fit _him_ back? He’s here; why not take the chance to make amends?”

Sherlock looks back at him with a frown. “I don’t need to run after Victor Trevor, John. My life is fulfilling as it is now. I have the work and I have–” Sherlock snaps his mouth shut.

But John isn’t letting him get away, as a glint of hope blossoms in his chest. “And you have…” he prompts, softening his stance as much as possible, opening his heart, showing his hand.

“You really want me to say it? Oh, very well: I have you, John. My friend, my companion. I’ve said before, you keep me right.”

Sherlock reddens a bit more, which John thinks is absolutely adorable, and before he retreats into his marble tower, John reaches out. “You have me, Sherlock. You have me in any way you may wish to have me.”

The words hang in the air and settle softly over them, sink into their skins, meld into their blood. As realisation dawns on Sherlock’s features, John sits forward and touches his knee with a warm, steady hand. Sherlock lays his hand over John’s; they look into each other’s eyes for a long moment.

It’s not a moment filled with regret and apologies – rather, it is quiet and peaceful and filled with acceptance. It’s a healing of old scars, a look back to a past that can now stay in the past.

It’s a door that opens where one had closed a long time ago.


	29. “At least it can’t get any worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Domestic Fluff; Humor  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

Sherlock rushes in the flat in a flurry of windswept curls and billowing long coat. “John, you are _never_ going to believe this.”

“And a good evening to you too, Sherlock,” John replies without missing a beat, “I’ll believe in anything if you throw away the severed hand that is, as we speak, a cultivating ground for three types of mould in our fridge.”

Sherlock looks back at him, confusion written all over his face. “That is the whole purpose of the severed hand, John, why would I throw it away?” He proceeds to remove his coat and scarf.

“Sherlock, hands from dead bodies are not– you know what, forget it.” John knows better than to continue that line of discussion – if Sherlock has decided to grow three types of mould on a decaying body part and it makes him happy, who is John to deny him that small pleasure? “What is it that I am never going to believe in?”

“Molly is dating Anderson. _Anderson_ , John!” Sherlock throws his hands up in clear disgust. “I thought better of her.”

“It’s an improvement over _Moriarty_ ,” John points out.

Sherlock seems to accept this. “Hm, quite right. At least it can’t get any worse.”

John smirks at him, mischief playing in his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it could.”

“How??” Sherlock sounds alarmed. He has caught John’s expression and is now visibly bracing himself.

“Well,” and John knows this will make Sherlock go ballistic, but he _just can’t help himself_ , “it could have been _Mycroft_.”


	30. “Do we really have to do this again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; Coming Out; Post-S4  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

A new text message pings on Sherlock’s phone. A sound John recognises all too well as a text from _her_.

The _Woman_.

Sherlock glances uninterested at the screen and back to the microscope. He changes to a new slide. John, standing in front of the stove, stiffens and stirs the pasta sauce a bit more violently than needed.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” John aims for nonchalance; he knows he fails miserably at it, but does he really have an option?

“Hmmm, no.” Eyes riveted on the eyepieces, Sherlock adjusts the height of the stage until he’s satisfied.

“Maybe you should. So you, you know.”

Sherlock exhales a long, weary sigh and in the same breath asks, “So I _what_?”

John clears his throat and shuts off the heat on the sauce. He has another pot to stir now.

“Get it out of your system. And of hers.”

Sherlock turns around in his chair to get a better look at John. “Do we really have to do this again?”

“Maybe she just wants a one-night stand and would leave you alone after that.” John ignores the clench in his guts as he suggests this. He glances over his shoulder to see a baffled Sherlock staring back at him.

“A one-night stand.” The words are enunciated as if they were poisonous and Sherlock would want to deposit them carefully out of anyone’s reach.

And suddenly, they are talking over each other.

“Yeah, you know, High Wycombe–”

“Honestly John, I know you are unobservant–”

“Although I suppose some posh hotel in London would do–”

“–but to utterly ignore what I told you the very first evening we spent together–”

“It’s not like you have to go on a relationship with her–”

“–about girlfriends not being my area–”

“–as said, friends with benefits, hey?”

“–is it really that difficult to interpret that line as ‘I am homosexual’?

John snaps his mouth shut. Opens it again. Shuts it. And finally manages to blurt, “Huh?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns again to the microscope. “I’m _gay_ , John. Gay. Very, _very_ gay. I like _men_. Well, I don’t really do relationships, but if I did? Not women.”

“B-but Irene–”

“Oh, hell!” Sherlock explodes, getting up from his chair so hard it falls back on the cupboard next to John with a loud clang. He swirls around, his palms turned up in exasperation, jaw clenched and a hard look on his eyes. “To _hell_ with Irene Adler! She texts stupid little dinner invitations and crass innuendos just to get a rouse out of me, and quite possibly out of you!”

“Maybe, uh, maybe you should tell her that you’re. You know. Gay?” John tries to wrap his mind around this sudden coming out. Is Sherlock comfortable about talking about himself like this? Did John go a step too far?

And how the hell had he not noticed Sherlock was that way inclined?

The answer is obvious, really: Sherlock dismisses sentiment and romantic entanglements as things that happen to other people, and it just reinforced John’s belief that his friend was somewhere in the asexuality spectrum. But he had been so sure that Sherlock had had his heart broken by Irene… Then Sherlock had thrown himself off a rooftop and there was no point to think about these things any longer.

Until there was. Because now, months after John moved back to Baker Street, months of rebuilding their friendship, months of growing intimacy and a bond stronger than ever, John has found himself (sometimes, just sometimes, late at night, in his bed, behind the relative safety of a closed door) wondering ‘what if’.

What if.

Sherlock doesn’t reply immediately. He seems to be trying to read John’s thoughts, his sharp blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly at him, cool and calculating. “She knows I’m gay. Remember that she ‘knows what people like’?” The quotation marks are obvious in his answer.

“Why did you never tell me?” John asks softly, so softly. He doesn’t want to scare Sherlock away from having this conversation. Because now, John needs to know more, so much more.

He needs to answer those ‘what ifs’.

“What would be the point?” Sherlock straightens the chair and slumps back down in it. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Who you are matters, Sherlock,” and John puts a tentative hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.

Sherlock looks up at him, and John stops breathing. There is longing and hope and sadness in Sherlock’s gaze. “Does it, John? To whom, though?”

John pulls another chair and sits in front of Sherlock. Their knees bump.

“It matters to me.” Something unfurls in John’s chest, something frightening and wonderful. He is tired, so tired of running in this Möbius strip where he always ends up where he started. Tired of trying to let this wonderful man go, of pushing him away.

John wants, he wants so much, and he can’t help but to try push the door open. He grabs Sherlock’s hand ever so gently between his own and repeats, “It matters to me.”

For a few moments, time is suspended in 221B Baker Street. Then, Sherlock raises their joined hands to his lips and, as he places a careful kiss on John’s hand, he whispers,

“Thank you.”


	31. “I’ve waited so long for this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant tags: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; 221B Ficlet; Fluff; Implied Sexual Content; gratuitous abuse of clichés  
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

In the end, it was so simple.

There had been no drama. No real build-up, either. No grand moments of revelation, no planned heart-to-hearts. No special catalyst. No emotional confessions.

In the end, it was a quiet evening in. A shared dinner. Small talk. A retreat to the sofa.

A shared look. A tacit agreement. An enveloping force field. An invisible tether.

A hand on a knee. On the curve of the neck. On a cheek. Fingers through curls, through short strands of hair.

Soft lips, firm lips. Warmth. Sweetness. A tender touch. A gentle proximity. Not a culmination, but rather a next step. Passion, not brief and fiery but steady and glowing as embers.

Hand in hand as they walk together, a path new and old, ending where it starts. The final piece of the puzzle neatly fitting into place.

Cool sheets. Warm bodies. Delicate touches. Shuddering ecstasy. Words of love and devotion. Sonnets whispered on naked skin. The unspoken bliss of _I’ve waited so long for this_ , _I love you_ , _I am yours_ , _I am here_ , _Always_ , _Forever_.

Because in the end, it is so simple. It is always Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock, the two of them against the world. Survivors, brothers in arms, friends, partners. A love immutable, immortal, indelible.

The inevitability of them. Ever blooming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> [Come and say hi to me on Tumblr.](https://shiplocks-of-love.tumblr.com/)


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